Winter's Rose
by Ghostly Melody
Summary: Something lurks beneath the Paris Opera House- something strange, mysterious, and lethal. Something enamored. Tales are about to intertwine in a plot that will forever alter France's history. My version of the Phantom of the Opera, and how it should of played out. E/C. ***CHAPTER ONE IS UP!*** Rated T.
1. Prologue

AN: Hey, all! It's been a very long time. Frankly, I've been too caught up in schoolwork and such. So, I've decided to do a remake of Defying the Dark. This story has the same concept- a retelling of the original 2004 movie, but I run the show.

So, on with the story...

Winter's Rose

Prologue

Frail shafts of light illuminated the mangled floor. Apparitions of whispers, cheers, and hoots reverberated throughout the vacuous room, long since publicized and heard.

Rats scrabbled beneath the floorboards, nibbling at the un-salvaged carrion which had latched itself between audience seats.

The red carpets trickled from beneath the seats like blood, the brittle tendrils of their gold-edged remains prying for life like rapacious fingers. The carpet had ensnared itself between fragments of glass and baubles.

A formerly resplendent chandelier lay inert among the wreckage, its ability to provoke any spectator into awe vanished some years ago. The gargantuan chandelier looked melancholy itself. And there were many to blame.

An inferno had rampaged throughout that very opera house many nights ago.

Before that, however, guests took seats to observe the plays, performers ushered themselves to and fro in the wings, and a particular...phantom had assumed its position above and below them all.

There was a blooming young singer, Christine Daae, who had once graced the Paris Opera House. She was benevolent, sprightly, and breathed life into the core of the stage.

And into the Phantom.

One certain night, however, had blown the young woman and the ghost asunder. One night which the whole of France would never cease to forget.

In order to tell the two souls' ending, however, one must go back to the beginning...

AN: I know it wasn't much. It's just a platform to get me into the water. Hope you all enjoyed! Please review. :)


	2. Chapter One

**A/N: Hey, all. Sorry for the lack of updates! I've decided that I'm going to retell PTO to my standards; I'll add some original scenes from the movie, retell them, and totally craft my own. **

**Please note that this work is based off the 2004 film. I see Christine as Emmy Rossum, Erik and Gerard Butler, Raoul *pukes* as Patrick Wilson, etc. I hope you all enjoy what I have to offer! **

**I'm going to tell this story launching a little further in. It'll be after Christine's debut performance. Directly after, actually. I just didn't want to delve into things we've already seen, as I assume most of us have watched the film. If you haven't, I highly suggest you do.**

**Now, onto the real performance... **

Chapter One

The chiming of laughter resounded from a distance. The gentle pang of footfall echoed one another, two pairs of feet glided effortlessly across a manicured walkway. Two figures darted between props and set adornments, grinning jovially as they advanced.

"I still cannot believe that was you who sang!" came the delighted squeal of Meg Giry.

"I can hardly believe it, either," confessed the young woman of whom the younger Giry spoke to. They had just exited the simple chapel of the Paris Opera House, giddy and alert.

"So you say it was the Angel of Music who endowed you with such abilities?" Meg questioned.

"Indeed, it was," responded Christine as they rounded a corner to the dressing rooms.

"Well, you must teach me to sing," Meg urged, clasping her companion's forearm.

"Oh, I could never do such a thing, I'm afraid, for the Angel of Music is the true virtuoso," Christine gushed. "And I am merely his pupil."

A lapse of silence befell them both. Christine hurriedly opened the door to the erstwhile dressing room of Carlotta, listening as the door hissed shut behind them.

"Do you really believe that your tutor is the spirit form of your father?" Meg questioned, a fair brow sailing toward her bangs.

"I must confess that I am not certain, after tonight," Christine replied, frank.

Meg scrunched her face at the dismissal. "Well, what is his name?"

Christine crossed to the vanity table established near the mirror, and contemplated her image in the reflection before stating, "I don't know."

"How can you be taught by someone and not be aware of their name?" Meg asked, perplexed. She fluttered about the carpet to stand beside her friend, gazing at her in speculation.

"It hasn't been an issue thus far, Meg. And I've never asked for his name. Maybe he doesn't have one," Christine mused.

"Oh, that's preposterous," Meg chided, giggling slightly. "Everyone has a name."

When Christine shrugged, Meg pressed. "What does he look like? Oh, I do hope he's not a ninny."

Christine curled back her full lips and expelled a titter. "Meg, he's not a ninny. But..." Christine's brows clouded, and her fingers fumbled along the array of perfumed flowers at the surface of the vanity table. "I really don't have a clear depiction of him. All I can recall is his voice. And that's all that matters, isn't it?"

Meg sighed, her eyes rolling in synchronization. "You're not making any sense. Christine, are you feeling alright? Was that performance too stressful?"

"No," Christine said. "In fact, it was exhilarating. I feel...alive."

A knock reverberated around the room, and the muffled, gruff voice of Madame Giry shoved through the oak. "Meg Giry, you better not be in there. I told you that you weren't permitted."

Meg scowled, grumbling. "I can do whatever I wish. It's not as if I'm a little girl anymore."

'You're seventeen," Christine commented.

"I shall be eighteen in three weeks! I'm practically a woman!" Meg sniffed melodramatically. "You're sixteen, and my mother treats you as if you're a fragile, old maid! Really, it makes little sense."

"_Meg_..." Madame Giry called through the door.

"Oh, fine," Meg huffed, floating across the dressing room floor. "Good night, Christine. I'll see you tomorrow."

Christine heard the door slam behind her, and the comical confrontation between the ballet mistress and her daughter. She chuckled softly, purging her hair of its cumbersome pins. She watched as her dark curls fell about her white shoulders, and stood to go behind the ornate dressing screen.

Halfway, however, Christine stalled at the sound of a voice.

The door creaked open, and a sprightly young man presented himself. He grinned, and Christine braced herself against the table.

"W-who are you? What are you doing in here?" she called out.

"Forgive me, Little Lotte," the man said, his blue eyes glittering with mirth.

_Little Lotte_...Christine thought. Suddenly, she was transposed through time, years ago into her childhood. Summers at the shore, a fleeting scarf, a retrieval by a youthful boy. Not a soul had addressed her by that name in almost ten years.

Christine beamed. "I'm delighted to see you, Raoul."

* * *

The Phantom curled his fingers about the gilded threshold of the mirror, grinding his teeth, aggravation seeping into the very marrow of his bones. Another moment, another visitor. These inundating pests were ceaseless!

The ghost watched as his student moved to embrace a young man bearing a bouquet of flowers, and cursed himself. Why had he not sealed the door after the squalling Meg Giry had departed?

The mirror he peered through allowed for visibility from his side, but not from the other. Ergo, the party on the outside could not detect him. He stalked along the path, his head thrashing back once to peruse the scene.

"Raoul, it's been years," Christine whispered, accepting the floral arrangement with humility.

"I know, Little Lotte. And I'm terribly sorry for that. When I heard you sing tonight, the memories resurfaced. I knew that was you. And my, how you've changed," Raoul said, laying his hand atop Christine's.

Christine's eyes filmed over with moisture. She glanced down demurely at Raoul's modest grip, then withdrew her small hand from his. She occupied herself with positioning her recent gift among the already present legion of flowers. "I missed you."

Raoul crossed the distance and draped his palms across her exposed shoulders, saying, "and I missed you."

The Phantom felt his blood seethe within his being at the revolting sight. He yearned, suddenly, for his lasso to ensnare the fop's neck in. How dare that young dandy defile Christine? His hands flew to the mirror, working to pry it open. Prudence halted him.

He would have to await his chance.

Christine ducked away from him, studying her angelical reflection in the elongated mirror, her pale cheeks aflame. The Phantom's breath hitched. She was so close...

"I desire to offer my invitation to escort you to dinner this evening, Little Lotte," Raoul offered, nearing her once more.

"Oh, Raoul, I don't know. I'm already occupied with another, and it would be highly inappropriate for me to-" Christine was startled as she was cut short by the Vicomte. She pivoted to face him.

"I insist. Now, I shall leave you to change, and then I'll return. I already have a carriage waiting outside. Ten minutes, Little Lotte," Raoul replied briskly.

"Raoul, wait-!" Before Christine had a chance to complete her plea, he was gone.

The Phantom's eyes smoldered in wrath. That impertinent hound of a "gentlemen" was far too intimate for his liking. He gazed fondly back at Christine, who was situated at the vanity table once more.

The man behind the mirror smirked.

It was due time for his plan to be in action.

**A/N:**

**Hope it was a pleasurable chapter! :) Please review- do it for Erik! **


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N: LadySpindle- Thank you ever so much for your kind review!**

Chapter Two

Not soon after Raoul departed did she feel her nerves take flight.

What was maestro to say? Would he be enraged to find she had unwillingly halted their commitment to practice?

Christine buried her face in her hands. The very last thing she wished to achieve was fracture any minute chance of pleasing the Angel of Music! Such blasphemy! Papa would be so ashamed of her...

She scuttled behind the dressing screen and stripped out of her performance wear and into more suitable attire. As she changed, she reflected on what Raoul had done— fondled her, cooed to her, acted as if she was a little girl! And worst of all, he hadn't even addressed her by her actual name. Merely "_Little Lotte_". Was he so clueless as to not recount her it? She whipped the ivory sash of the diaphanous dressing gown about her slim waist.

Raoul was just going to have to wait.

Christine perched at the mirror and began to snare a brush through her gleaming curls, her brows creased in dismay. Her glazing eyes honed in on an object on the surface of the table, and she set the brush down. Tentatively, she plucked up a blooming rose atop the stack of inundating flowers. With her thumb, she caressed the black silk of the ribbon tied about it, and grinned.

It was then that she heard the indisputable hum of song.

She twirled to face the mirror, perplexed. The vacuous walls about her thundered with a voice, snapping and growling somehow melodically with masqueraded rage.

"_Insolent boy, this slave of fashion,_

_Basking in your glory!_

_Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor,_

_Sharing in my triumph_!"

Christine rose, her lips parted in response:

"_Angel, I hear you_

_Speak, I listen_

_Stay by my side,_

_Guide me_

_ Angel, my soul was weak,_

_Forgive me_

_Enter at last, Master!_"

His voice, ethereal and soothing, rose from behind the walls to caress her ears:

"_Flattering child you shall know me,_

_see why in shadow I hide_

_Look at your face in the mirror—_

_I am there inside...!_"

Christine's senses were sent awash in splendor. Her body gravitated closer toward the toward the origin of the voice, euphoria shooting through her veins. Otherworldly fog encapsulated her form, sending a bout of shuddering to lash up her spine. Christine shifted toward the mirror, a diluted image shoving through the glass. She throat felt numb as she struggled to sing in his potent presence.

_"Angel of music guide and guardian_

_Grant me to your glory!_

_Angel of Music hide no longer_

_Come to me, strange Angel!"_

She felt a thrill at the sound of his urgent reply—

_"I am your Angel of Music_

_Come to me, Angel of Music..."_

Christine heard the distance wailing of Raoul and the rattling of a door, entreating his entrance. She ignored him, stepping closer.

Like downing the dregs of finely brewed wine, the last of her visitor's notes poured into her ears.

The apparition partly visible from behind the glass offered a gloved hand, its face betraying no emotion.

Almost imperceptible, she withdrew her hand as Raoul's voice regained clarity. He howled her name, shouted for management.

With a deadpan expression, Christine accepted the ghost's palm.

And feeling nothing other than the glove beneath her, she allowed him to lead her into the unknown.

**A/N: My apologizes for the short chapter. I wanted to squeeze this one in before I had to leave. It's also pretty mediocre- sorry, it was a long day at school and I was writing some of my original novel beforehand.**

**(Oh, and trust me, this story will move away from the original plot soon!)**

**I hope you enjoyed. **

**If you don't mind, please drop a review. It would mean the world to me. :) **


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews, you guys! They brought a smile to my face (and to my heart)! I recently got done with testing for almost two hours (school beforehand) so we'll see how long this chapter is before my brain slows to a stop. :) **

**This is also going to be a chapter without Erik and Christine (sorry!) Just wanted to get into Raoul's foppish little head. (Be warned, Raoul lovers should step away now. I can assure you upfront that his future is quite...foreboding). **

Chapter Three

Raoul's fist throbbed with an insatiable pain. Minutes of pounding upon Christine's door proved fruitless, and moments expunging his last energy to holler for management did nothing to abate his worry.

He pivoted to face the door, left hand lounging on the brass doorknob of the dressing room, right fingers splaying haphazardly through his flaxen locks.

He had such an extravagant—albeit nostalgic for Christine's sake— evening prepared, before Christine's recent vanishing had severed the matter. All gone to dross! He thudded his head against the door. _Damn_! He was so close.

Raoul closed his eyes, sighing. Where had that furtive singer gone to?

He contemplated, then, of their more recent encounter. He was, to be candid, stunned at what his eyes had fallen upon. No longer was Christine the gawking, clumsy, and plaintive child from their past. No, she had matured into quite a bewitchingly beautiful girl. She couldn't be more than sixteen, and there she was, sporting the aesthetics of a woman in their twenties.

Yet with quite the air of meekness.

And that was what troubled him so. He couldn't have a dull play thing, now, could he?

By the time Raoul's brooding ceased, the crowd had thinned. So when Firmin and Andre came barreling toward the young socialite, it was of no shock to hear their rapid, sloppy footfall across the tile.

"Monsieur Vicomte! " they gasped as they approached.

Raoul's eyes shuddered open.

Andre panted out, "We came as quickly as we could—"

"—trampled performers to arrive here!" came Firmin.

"—almost fell down a flight of stairs on the way!" Andre shouted.

"Gentlemen!" Raoul chastised, startling both managers to jolt. "Enough."

"W—what seems to be the trouble?" Firmin sputtered.

"Miss Daae is missing," Raoul informed curtly.

Andre's eyes bugged from his skull. "Missing? When?"

"I returned to her room to collect her, yet the door was locked. Through it, I could hear some commotion—voices, singing! I called for the young lady, but she didn't respond. I fear she's been harmed, and I deduce she's been taken," Raoul said.

"Taken? Impossible! The door was locked the whole time. Do you believe someone else was present with her, as well?" Andre mused.

"Let's not stand here! Mademoiselle Daae is the very key to raking in revenue as of late. We shall not have her _missing_," Firmin proclaimed. He turned about himself, then, in time to see Madame Giry passing in the shadows. "Madame Giry! Come here immediately!"

The older woman did as instructed, her solemn skirts whisking stiffly behind her. "Yes?"

"Mademoiselle Daae is gone! Do you know where she went?" Andre inquired, his weathered face taut in consternation.

"No," Madame Giry said, icily. "Why would I know where she is?"

"She is one of your ballet girls, is she not?" Firmin asked, somewhat accusatory.

"She was, until tonight," Madame Giry replies, cool.

"The door is locked, do you have a key?" Raoul questioned, having his full of hysterics and biding of time. Agitation tugged at his fingertips. They twitched.

"I had one, sir. It appears that it, too, is missing," Madame Giry's thin lips flickered into a semblance of a smirk.

Raoul examined her. What did she know? Instead of further interrogation, he exhaled sharply. "Well, let's not waste anymore time, then. Help me, I'm going to force the door."

The three men occupying the vicinity took position at the sealed threshold. Raoul braced his hands against the wood, applying his utter weight to the barrier.

Madame Giry looked on with an amused gaze.

As if on cue, the three gentlemen exerted their energy, barreling in. They heard the definitive crack of wood as the doorway cleaved and they encroached upon the dressing room.

"Mademoiselle Daae?" the two managers called, probing about the room.

Raoul crossed the elaborate carpet to the vanity table, and spied a single rose amongst the myriad of flowers. He lifted it, testing the weight in his hands. "Peculiar..."

"What? What is it?" Andre squawked, coming to stand beside Raoul.

"It's a rose," Raoul muttered. "Tied with a black ribbon. I've never seen the habit beforehand."

"Perhaps it's a trend," Firmin brushed this off. "The matter is, we still have not located Mademoiselle Daae! And rehearsals are not far away."

Raoul fixated his focused stare on the pair of bumbling managers. "I want you two to interview as many people as you can around the Opera House. See if you can obtain information about Mademoiselle Daae, and her recent disappearance. Be discreet, however, in your endeavors. We wouldn't wish to stir a scandal."

"Of course," Andre assured. "We shall get on that, monsieur."

The young eyed them both.

"Posthaste," Raoul reprimanded when they did not move, voice tinged with frustration. In answer, Andre and Firmin exchanged looks, gasps, and then promptly hurried from the room in pursuit of their order.

Raoul strode slowly across the room, rose in hand. With an ever-deepening scowl, he squinted into the full length mirror adorning one of the walls. He released the cardinal bloom from his hand. "I will find you, Christine Daae."

Little did he know that vow would be difficult to upkeep.

Especially with the Opera Ghost's sly confidante in the wings.


End file.
